CHAPTER 40:  GREENLEAF

Aragorn remembered little of his ride that day. He and his small escort (of the fastest riders among his guard, for he would slow down for none) set off with the rising of the sun, and did not halt but for brief periods of rest and nourishment.

He only remembered the miles flowing swiftly by underfoot as Rallias sailed over the earth, and images of tree and rock and grass and hillock blended into one long stream of myriad colors – for his eyes were fixed only on a target he could not yet see. He would have ridden on through the following night as well, but his guards were weary, so he allowed the company a few hours’ rest as they camped on the banks of the Anduin several leagues from Pelargir.

It was thus that they reached the town early the next day – without fanfare or ceremony for the King and his company, as none knew they were coming. Aragorn felt relieved, for his business was across the river. But the Mayor came to know of the King’s presence and hurriedly prepared refreshments for him. The Mayor was a good man, so Aragorn accepted the food graciously even if he hardly savored it. He was in haste, and a bitter taste was on his tongue.

“I will see you at the celebrations next month, my Lord,” the Mayor said in parting when Aragorn rose to leave the table.  

The king paused in his act at that declaration, for it reminded him of the role he held as ruler of the country.

I do not yet know if it will be as joyful for me as it is for my realm. But life in Gondor has to go on, no matter what turmoil assails my own, he realised.

“I look forward to it,” he forced himself to reply courteously, and departed as quickly as he could without offending his host.

An hour later found him crossing the Anduin on the ferry that bore the elves to and from South Ithilien. Only Rallias had been brought on board, for the ferry was not large enough to bring all the other horses across.

We will need a bigger ferry to service the crossings when Legolas opens up more of the woods for settlement, he decided – then checked himself. If he stays long enough to do so…

Aragorn sighed. He was weary in body and spirit, but his senses were sharp, and he was glad for the river wind that cooled him in the heat of his turmoil. As his dark hair billowed gently in the breeze and the water lapping lazily against the side of the ferry, Aragorn’s mind traveled back to a time when there had been no wind: he had been sailing up this river in the ships of the Black Fleet, in a desperate attempt to reach the Pelennor Fields and succor Gondor in her defence against the attack from Mordor. Deep had been his anxiety then, as had been that of the Rangers and the sons of Elrond, who had joined them on the Quest since Rohan. Rightly were they dismayed, for they had forty leagues to go till they reached the landings outside Minas Tirith, but they were sailing against the stream, and no wind blew to aid their journey, so that the progress of the fleet was slow.

The only one on those ships who had not been depressed by the weather was the elf prince Legolas, Aragorn recalled.

The heart of Gimli was as heavy as the steel chains of the ship’s anchors and the oars that labored against the current, and the dwarf was close to despair. But Legolas suddenly laughed.

“Up with your beard, Durin’s son!” the elf said. “For thus is it spoken: Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn.”

What hope the elf saw from afar, none could tell – and he would not reveal it. When night came, they were further dismayed, for they saw Minas Tirith burning red in the dark sky.

But at midnight, hope was indeed born anew, and a fresh wind came from the Sea, so that long before day broke, the ships could unfurl their sails, and their speed grew till the foam frothed white at the prows. It was thus that they reached the Fields of the Pelennor at the third hour of the morning, and in that glad hour, they turned the tides of the battle against the enemies of Gondor.

The memory made Aragorn smile despite the weight in his heart, and it filled him with a strange sense of pride in his elven friend.

I am Estel, the Hope of Men. Yet it was you who had enough hope for the whole fleet, mellon nin, he thought fondly. Truly a Greenleaf you are, Legolas: the first herald of each spring, a promise of all that is fresh and new and alive.  You lifted my spirits when no one else could – and you still can.

Then Aragorn’s smile left him.

But my reign may be long; and I know not if the Greenleaf will continue to see me through my Winters and help me greet each Spring.

A sound disrupted his melancholic thoughts, and he heard that it was the call of a bird. They must be nearing land: South Ithilien, Aragorn realised. Squinting, his sharp grey eyes could just perceive the faint outline of the far bank.

He lifted his head then to look at the white clouds in the blue skies, and he gasped. For, before his eyes, he seemed to see the clouds swirl and change to form a shape – that which had first wrought so much agony in the elf: a sea-gull. And suddenly the sound he had heard was that of its crying, its plaintive voice wailing, calling, beckoning to the Firstborn:

Come home, come home.   

Then it seemed to Aragorn that he saw once more the elf prince on a ship of the Black Fleet, seeing gulls for the first time in his life: a wonder they were to him and a trouble to his heart.

He stood still, forgetting war in Middle-earth, for their wailing voices spoke to him of the Sea. He had never seen it, but deep in the hearts of his kindred lay the Sea-longing, which was perilous to stir.

And now it had been stirred. No peace would he have again under beech or elm, the Lady of the Golden Wood had said.

Would the Strongbow prevail?

The ferry lurched on a strong wave, and so deep in thought was Aragorn that he suddenly stumbled backward and he was jolted out of his ponderings. Two hands on his back steadied him, and a voice enquired politely: “My Lord?”

The king looked back at two of his guards and shook his head, assuring them that he was well. And when he looked at the sky again – the gull in the clouds was gone.

Knitting his brows, his eyes returned to the expanse of the river.

Ai, Legolas, he lamented. What will I find on the other side?

As if in answer, a shape came into view – a shape that Aragorn would have given anything not to see. It lay on the water some distance away from where the ferry was to moor, but close enough for the king’s keen eyes to define.

There it was: the unmistakable form of a vessel. Grey was the timber from which it was made, and solemn was the cruel message it sent into the heart of the king.

Come home, come home, wailed the voice of the gull in his mind.

And a promise to the Firstborn seemed to come from the grey ship: I will bear you hence.

Aragorn felt his heart sink as the ferry closed the distance to the pier, and as soon as it was possible for him to leap on the landing, he did. He waited only long enough for Rallias to disembark; then, with quick instructions for his escort to wait at the pier, he mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of the vessel.   

Within five minutes, he was approaching the ship and the elves working busily on deck. The elves had seen him from far off, as elves would, and two now leapt lithely off the ship to await his arrival. 

“Mae govannen, Lord Elessar,” they said in greeting when he reached and dismounted. Their expressions were a curious mixture of surprise, dismay and guilt.

Holding in the hundred questions he was bursting to pour forth, he returned their greeting and ran his eyes over the vessel. Now that he was seeing it for himself, the sense of impending loss hit him like a ton of rocks, muting him. But at the same time, a bitter feeling of betrayal stabbed at his chest till he felt tears sting his eyes.

He swallowed and made himself speak.

“Your prince?” he questioned shortly.

“He is not here, my Lord,” one of the elves replied.

“I can see that,” Aragorn said evenly. “Where is he?”

The two elves looked at each other, clearly hesitant to respond.

“Where – is – he?” the king repeated emphatically.

“I – we have instructions not to tell anyone, my Lord.”

Aragorn was incredulous. “Whose instructions?”

“The prince’s.”

Aragorn felt his bewilderment and his ire rising, and he was on the verge of issuing a stern command for them to tell him what he wanted to know. But these were not his subjects, he remembered in time, and bit his tongue to check himself.

Several other elves – including Hamille and Lanwil – had descended from the vessel, and they walked towards him as well, calling out to him and holding their hands to their hearts in the elven greeting. Their slender forms left hardly any imprint on the soft sand of the river bank as they moved, and their long hair – dark and brown and gold – flew like silken threads spun by the fingers of the wind.

Such breathtaking beauty, such grace, Aragorn could not help noting. What a loss it will be to Middle-earth.

When they were all gathered before him, his eyes swept over the fair beings – all loyal to their prince, all keeping his secret – and he suddenly felt his ire ebb and an overwhelming wave of sadness wash over him. There was a catch in his voice as he spoke.

“I am not your king, my friends, and I have no right of command over you,” he said quietly to the group, startling them with the depth of sorrow and defeat in his tone. “And no claim do I have over your prince save that of a friendship I hold closer to my heart than any other, and which I thought he held dear as well.”

He paused to look directly at Hamille and Lanwil. “I do not understand what is going on, or what I may have done to earn this distance from him, but I am no longer content to hear about him from the mouths of others,” he said. “I have ridden with little rest this past day for the sole purpose of meeting with him, so – saes, please – tell me where he is, for I shall not move from this spot till I find out, or he comes.”

The elves began to murmur among themselves, and the looks on their faces softened in sympathy. Many of them turned away, and as they did so, it seemed to Aragorn that on some of those faces, he caught – to his bewilderment and disheartenment – smiles.

He narrowed his eyes. Smiles? A cold anger began to course through him again: were they actually laughing cruelly at his distress?

Only Hamille showed no reaction, but cast his eyes to the sandy ground of the river bank as if he were trying to make a decision. Finally, he looked up and gave the command for the elves to return to their work. Then, as the others returned to the ship, he turned back to Aragorn.

“He is at a glade a two-hour walk from here,” he stated, gentle eyes filled with compassion – and another emotion Aragorn could not read. “We were not supposed to reveal this, but perhaps it is time.”

Aragorn released a sigh. It certainly is, he agreed silently. Aloud, he said: “Hannon le”.

“I will take you there, my Lord,” Hamille offered, “but I think it is best your escort remain here for now.”

Aragorn nodded. He would leave Rallias with the guards. “What is he doing there?”

“That… is not for me to say, my Lord,” Hamille replied, obviously keeping something hidden. “But of one thing I can assure you: my prince treasures your friendship no less deeply, and he would be grieved if he knew you thought otherwise.”

Instead of offending him, Hamille’s gentle chastisement actually brought a measure of relief to Aragorn, but he still needed answers.  

“I do not think otherwise, my good Hamille,” Aragorn said sincerely. “I have said to you before: there has been no nobler friend than your prince, and I have had none truer. But I must confess that I am troubled, for I do not understand what is going on. Why is he secreted away at the glade? Is that where he has been all this while?”

The elf hesitated, not quite sure how to answer the question. “Aye, he is there most of the time – but I should not be the one to tell you why,” he finally said. “He comes here sometimes to see to the progress of the ship.”

The ship.

Aragorn’s attention was brought back to the vessel he hated to see. Yet he had to face it.

“Wait,” he said to Hamille, taking a deep breath. “Before we proceed, may I first view this – this ship?”

Hamille sighed as if in defeat and raised his hand in an invitation for Aragorn to precede him.

The man hardened his heart and approached the vessel. Slowly, he walked the length of the ship in grim silence, admiring its sleekness and hating its significance. It was the most beautiful vessel he had ever seen, and the most loathsome.

It is for their prince Legolas, Faramir had said.

And it was indeed close to completion.

“When – ?” Aragorn tried to ask, but the question caught in his throat.

“There are still some finishing touches to be made, but it will be ready to sail in a week, perhaps two,” Hamille remarked nonchalantly, as if he were telling Aragorn when dinner would be served.

The king’s own heart plummeted, and his mouth went dry.

A week? he lamented. A week! Valar, I am not ready. Ai, Legolas…

Then Arwen’s words came back to him: There is still much of this tale that has yet to be told.

Aragorn stood straighter at that reminder, and he ran his eyes over the vessel from end to end, stubbornly looking for some indication – some sign that this ship might tell some other story, anything but the tale of Legolas’ departure. Anything.

Then his eyes alighted on something on the prow of the vessel that made him draw in his breath sharply. Emblazoned into the wood at the side of the ship was a symbol that dashed his hopes: the emblem of the Mirkwood monarchy.

The King of Gondor felt crushed. So it is true, he thought.

But wait.

He swung around to face Hamille. “This ship – ” he began. “It is for your king, is it not? That is his emblem. Is it for your king?”

Hamille looked at him strangely. “No, my Lord,” he said patiently. “Look.” And he pointed to the prow.

Aragorn peered more closely at the emblem. Narrowing his eyes, he saw now what he had missed before, and his knees went weak.

At the bottom of the monarch’s emblem, etched clearly and proudly into the wood, was the personal insignia of Prince Legolas: a single green leaf.  

“The prince plans to sail as soon as it is ready,” came the voice of Hamille, each word dripping like poison into Aragorn’s ear. “He has been waiting to fulfill this desire for a long time.”

Aragorn turned around to look at Hamille again, but now his mouth was set in a grim line, and his face had turned as grey as the timber of the ship.

“Take me to him,” he said.

Note:

Aragorn's recollections of the journey on the Black Fleet are adapted from Tolkien's Return of the King.

Next: The final chapter + 1.